


Heaven in a Rage

by Brate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'll say it again. Demons I get, people are crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven in a Rage

_To see a world in a grain of sand_  
And a heaven in a wild flower,  
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand  
And eternity in an hour.  
A robin redbreast in a cage  
Puts all heaven in a rage.  
—William Blake

 

"This is _so_ not my fault."

Sam looked over at his brother who was stuck in his own hanging cage. He could barely see him in the low light of the room. "On what planet is this not your fault?"

"How could I possibly know she was evil?" Dean protested.

"Demons don't have to worry about laying a trap; they just need to stick a slutty blonde in your path."

"Dude, I'm not going to apologize again."

"You haven't apologized _once_." Sam did his best to turn his back on his brother. Not an easy thing to do when the cage kept swinging around.

The silence was broken only by the creaking chains. It wasn't as though Sam truly blamed his brother for the mess they were in, but he was feeling pissed off and no one else was around to bear the brunt. 

One minute they'd been drinking in a bar, and the next Dean was walking out the door, one arm around some chick, the other waving a goodbye. Sam had rolled his eyes and gathered his stuff, intending to walk back to the motel. But when he exited the bar, he saw the woman behind the wheel of the Impala and no sign of his brother. Sam shouted and ran for the car. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up here. In a cage. Ten feet up. 

"So, you gonna stop being a whiny bitch and help us get outta here?" Dean finally asked.

Shifting uncomfortably on the iron bars, Sam said, "How do you propose we do that?"

"What, I gotta think of everything?"

Sam hoped his glare hurt. He switched his gaze to the room at large. It was a large open space, unfinished, with metal struts lining the ceilings. "I don't really see a way out."

"I saw this in a show once," Dean said. "Xena and Gabrielle were trapped in cages hanging from the ceiling…. Got a chakram on you?"

"I'm fresh out," Sam gritted through clenched teeth. Fresh out of patience. Fresh out of ideas, and from the look of things, fresh out of time. They'd been left to themselves for hours without any word of explanation.

As if summoned, the room's only door swung open. In walked the petite blonde Dean had been schmoozing. She looked up at them with a smile; Sam was suddenly reminded of Meg. He opened his mouth to say "Christo," but his brother beat him to it.

The woman didn't flinch, merely raising a curious brow.

"You're human?" Sam asked before he could stop himself.

She laughed a surprisingly sweet giggle. "What else would I be?" She tilted her head to the side appraisingly. "Now where shall we start?"

Before Dean could get himself in trouble, Sam asked, "Who are you? What do you want with us?"

The woman's eyes shifted between them. "You're my fun."

"You are one crazy bitch," Dean snarled. His eyes were cold, no longer seeing her beauty.

She giggled again, a friendly trill that grated on Sam's nerves. "My husband seems to think differently."

"Any man that puts up with you has my condolences," Dean said.

"You can tell him in person; you'll be meeting him soon enough." She quickly pulled a gun from behind her back and aimed it at Sam.

"Wait!" the boys said.

She pulled the trigger.

A muffled _thonk_ , and Sam looked down at his chest. He was surprised to find it whole, but not unbroken—in the middle was a feathered dart. He plucked it out and held it up. A rush of heat arced through his body followed by a crashing wave of ice. The room began to spin. Pinwheels of light chased a dark cloud of nothingness. He looked over and saw Dean's face start to flicker before darkening completely. Then nothing. 

He was beyond hearing his brother's frantic shouts.

~*~*~*~

Dean kicked at the bars of his cage, making it shake, but little else. With a growl, he slid down to sit, panting harshly.

He checked his watch. Forty minutes. It'd been almost forty minutes since Sam was taken. After flipping a wall switch to lower Sammy's cage, the woman had gone to the door and called, "He's ready." The biggest son of a bitch Dean had ever seen had come in and carried his unconscious brother away, ignoring Dean's curses and threats.

His leg shot out again, almost involuntarily, and his foot clanged against the bars. As the reverberations faded, the room's door opened again, a shock of blonde hair heralding his hostess' return. 

"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded as she slunk into view.

"Is that any way to ask? Not very good manners, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I'm sorry…. Where's my brother, _bitch_?"

She shook her head and walked over to the wall. She pushed the switch and Dean's cage lowered, stopping a few feet above the floor.

"That's better. Now I won't get a crick in my neck." She grabbed a wooden chair from the corner and sat down on it, crossing her legs and flashing her teeth. "Now, where were we?"

"Where's my brother?" Dean repeated.

"Still out," she said sadly. "My husband's getting him ready."

"Ready?" Dean was sick of being in the dark. "Why did you bring us here?"

"You were asking too many questions. You might've ruined our fun."

"Asking…" Dean trailed off. They'd been trying to find out what had killed and mutilated five people in Chikaming County within the last year. It seems they had succeeded. He was looking at the "monster" that had brought them there.

"What's your plan?" Dean asked when he found his voice.

"Well, first we have to make sure you boys won't have anyone looking for you."

"I hate to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but if our friends don't hear from us in a couple hours, they'll be on their way."

She laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. Her endless sense of humor was really working Dean's last nerve. Even though he knew better, he waited for her eyes to go black. "If only I could believe you," she said. "I think I'll go ahead and ask your brother to make sure."

"You lay one hand on him, and I will rip your fucking head off!"

She shook her head. "That's not going to happen." The certainty of her response ran a shiver up Dean's spine.

A pain-filled shriek echoed through the room. Dean had only heard that once before—when Sam had his nail ripped out by the appallingly happy Christmas gods.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean gripped the cage bars and tried to pull them apart.

Her head whipped around. "He started without me," she pouted. She stood and pointed a finger at Dean. "I'll see _you_ later," she said, leaving the room.

~*~*~*~

Dean's throat burned, but he kept shouting. He wasn't sure if he was doing it to let his brother know he wasn't alone, to drown out his brother's cries, or to draw attention to himself and away from Sam. In the end it didn't really matter…Dean screamed himself hoarse.

While Sam had been silent.

Dean wasn't sure if that was a good sign, or if it meant something Dean refused to consider. He kicked at the bars again, absurdly grateful for his steel-toed boots. But he felt himself moving. Nearer the ceiling, the cage jiggled when he rammed against it, but now, at the lower depth, it _swung_.

_I'll be damned._

__Back and forth Dean moved, swaying like a pendulum. Closer and closer he got to his target. He reached out a hand, cursing as it missed and smashed into the wall. Dean shook it out and kept moving, not willing to give up. He stretched to the left and smacked the switch to send his cage crashing to the floor.

It landed hard, jarringly. 

For just a moment, Dean lay there, breathing in slowly, before forcing himself to move. The cage door was slightly ajar. Curling his legs, he slammed his feet into it. He had little to no leverage, but it merely added to his determination.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._ Dean put everything he had behind his kicks, Sam's life dependant on it. Slowly, the metal flap bent. A few more kicks and it broke.

Dean slipped through the opening and moved to the door. He listened. No noise, no movement. He didn't have a weapon, but it didn't matter. Nothing and no one would stop him from getting to his brother. The door was unlocked. He knew his grin was feral; the bitch had made her second and final mistake. Cracking the door open, he peeked out, making sure it was clear. 

Dean crept through what seemed to be an abandoned office building, keeping close to the wall. He started opening doors, hoping he would find Sam before his escape was discovered. The first two rooms were empty of people, occupied by ladders, covered equipment, and paint cans. Opening the third, Dean stopped cold, breath caught in his throat. 

On the floor lay a mound, most certainly a body, almost completely hidden under a painter's cloth dotted with crimson stains. Shaggy, dark hair stuck out from one end. 

Dean couldn't get himself to move. If he didn't look, it wouldn't be true and he wouldn't be alone in this world.

Dizzy and lightheaded, he pushed himself forward, step by step, and fell to the ground. He reached a shaking hand and clutched at the canvas shroud. Slowly he pulled it back. The cloth whispered as it moved until it snagged. He pulled harder, wincing as it stuck to what was beneath before snapping free.

Dean stared, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. _It's not Sam_ , his brain told him, but his heart still beat too fast to be sure. "Not Sam," he said aloud this time, finally able to reconcile that the mutilated form in front of him was definitely not his brother. Not Sam. That was everything.

It meant Sam was still out there somewhere while Dean was wasting time. With a silent apology to the poor soul, Dean recovered him and stood, barely keeping his balance on wobbly legs. He backed out of the room, as if the corpse would come to life and stop him, not relaxing until the door closed between them. 

A shake of his head and he was back in hunter mode. All too easily that could've been—could _be_ —Sam, and Dean was not going to let that happen. He moved on to the next door. 

In the middle of the otherwise empty room Sam—stripped to his boxers—was tied to a long table. Pale flesh was coated in blood, not an inch appeared to be unblemished. Someone had been creative with a sharp edge.

Dean was at Sam's side before he realized he'd moved. "Sam?" he said softly, afraid there would be no response. 

He looked for a place to touch without causing pain, but Dean knew the clock was ticking. He had to get Sam out of here. 

~*~*~*~

Sam drifted in a haze. He refused to come fully awake, knowing what awaited him from past experience. He'd lost track of time.

Nothing existed except pain.

He felt a whisper of movement above him and tried not to flinch. A light touch on his face—Sam couldn't stop a moan from escaping.

"Shh, shh, it's me, it's okay."

Dean…Dean was here. Dean was all right. Thank God.

Sam had purposely avoided thinking of his brother, but praying he wasn't being put through the same horror.

"Dean?" Sam tried to say, his throat raw from screaming.

His brother understood anyway. "It's okay, Sammy, I'm gonna get you out of here."

Sam couldn't open his eyes, tears and blood had mixed, gluing them together. But he could feel the gentle hands—so different from that of the others—untying the ropes binding him. Even with Dean's careful movements, Sam hissed as the rope pulled across abraded flesh.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Dean chanted, anguish clear.

Sam shook his head, trying to relay his relief, not minding pain if it led to his release. Not minding much at all, really, because Dean was here. Dean would get them both out of this. He tried to speak again, wanting to take away the guilt he heard in his brother's voice, but had no better luck than before. 

~*~*~*~

"It's okay, it's okay." Dean kept up his calming mantra as he untied Sam. The noises of distress coming from his brother alternated between sending him into fury and depression. He forced his hands to be steady and sure, relentlessly working to loosen the bonds. Finally, Sam was free.

"Can you sit up?" he asked.

Sam moved his head enough for a yes. He flopped a hand, wordlessly requesting assistance. 

Dean obliged. He carefully pulled on Sam with one hand, while bringing his other around to support his brother's back. His fingers slid in something sickly warm. Sam gasped in pain, and quickly bit back the sound. Dean almost let Sam go, but recovered his sense in time and craned his neck to view his brother's back. 

"Oh, shit, sorry, Sammy." If possible, his back was worse than his chest, a mass of cuts and slices and…were those whip marks? Dean swallowed his anger, reminding himself that it was more important to get Sammy out of here.

After ensuring Sam would remain upright, Dean went to grab the stack of clothes in the corner. He made short work of Sam's shirt, tearing it into strips for bandages, and covered as much of his brother's back as he could to stop the slow bleeding. He hated to take the time, but Sam couldn't afford to lose any more blood.

After an initial hiss of pain, Sam quietly stared at the tabletop.

"Sam? We need to move, and I need your help."

Sam didn't react.

Dean touched the side of Sam's face, pulling his eyes in line with Dean's. "Sammy…I need you to focus."

Sam's eyes slowly tracked. "Dean?" His voice was wrecked. 

"We need to get you dressed."

Dean slipped Sam's jacket over his shoulders and slid his jeans onto his legs, tugging them up as far as he could. He winced as the fabric tore through the clotting wounds. "Sam, we need to get your pants on. Can you stand?"

Sam nodded, holding out a shaking hand. 

As quickly and clinically as possible, Dean pulled up and zipped Sam's jeans. Once it was over, he simply tapped the table for Sam to sit again and knelt to put on Sam's shoes. Dean swallowed a hysterical laugh when he was suddenly sent back almost twenty years to a time when he would tie his brother's shoes every day before school. Even though he was a smart little shit, Sammy could never figure out the bunny-ears with the laces. And Dean didn't bother asking Dad to get Velcro shoes because he wanted to do it…wanted to be needed by Sammy.

He forced his mind back to the present when a movement caught his eye and he heard Sam gasp.

Dean reacted immediately, rolling to one side and jumping to his feet.

The man-mountain charged.

Leaping aside, Dean let the larger man's momentum take him straight past. Not willing to give up the advantage, Dean didn't wait for his opponent to turn. He shot out a fist for two quick kidney punches, then grabbed the man by the hair and slammed his face into the wall. The man shook his head and began to turn, going for Sam in his confusion. It was all Dean needed. The hours of being locked in a cage listening to his brother scream broke something free inside him, and it was dark and vicious and knew no mercy. Dean's fists began to burn as he pounded bone and flesh. His hands began to slip against the downed man's skin, yet still he fought on. Nothing mattered except preventing this man—no, this _thing—_ from hurting Sammy. 

"Dean, stop." The raspy plea finally broke through.

Breathing hard, Dean saw the mountain had toppled. The man was no threat to them and wouldn't be for some time. 

He gave Sam a thumbs-up and bent down to search the unconscious man, crowing in triumph when he recovered his car keys. 

Sam huffed a laugh, and the sound soothed something raw inside Dean. Sam started to slide to the side, but Dean saved him from a meeting with the floor. 

"Let's go," Dean said, pulling Sam up.

Slowly, they shuffled to the door. Dean leaned Sam against the wall as he checked the hall. "It's clear." 

Dean stretched Sam's arm across his shoulders as they started to make their way out of the building. Sam's ragged breathing told Dean exactly how his brother was doing. He clenched his teeth and focused on the exit. About halfway down the hall, Sam faltered, and they both stumbled, the blood along Sam's back making it hard to keep a decent grip.

A sharp _crack_ , and Dean felt a burning in his right arm. He lost his hold on Sam who fell to the floor in a heap.

"You're spoiling my fun."

Dean saw Sam shiver at the female voice. He stepped forward, placing himself between Sam and the woman pointing a .38 at them. "We're leaving," he growled.

She tightened her grip on the gun. "Not while you're still breathing, you aren't."

"Lady, you got no say in the matter," Dean said. He wasn't about to let them get their hands on Sam again.

"This says differently." She waggled the weapon and called over her shoulder. "Honey." There was no answer. Her smile waned as Dean's grew. Her eyes shifted to the side and she called louder.

Dean started forward slowly, his own blood and pain insignificant when he thought of what Sam had gone through.

She looked back at them, and Dean froze.

"What did you do?" she asked angrily, gun hand shaking. 

Dean smirked. "You gave us such incredible hospitality; I figured I'd return the favor." 

Her eyes blazed. "Where is he?"

With her attention split, he crept closer. "He makes a lovely corpse."

With a cry of rage, she raised her gun. Before she could get a shot off, he was on her. Dean had been raised to respect women, but he didn't hesitate before punching her as hard as he could across her jaw.

She was out like a light and wouldn't be moving anytime soon.

Dean picked up the gun and shoved it into his waistband. Shaking off his lightheadedness from blood loss, he staggered back to Sam.

Sam didn't look too good. Underneath the bright red slick of blood, his skin was the ashen color of a man who had been sick for months. His face twisted as he fought to keep conscious and mask his obvious pain. Shivers ran through him as the cement floor leached the vital warmth from his body.

Dean knelt beside him. It was time to get them both someplace safe. "Come on, Sammy, time to move."

Pain stabbed through Dean from the gunshot wound, but he ignored it as he lightly tapped Sam on the cheek. "Sam, you with me?" 

~*~*~*~

Sam pulled his gaze away from the woman's form and brought it to Dean's face. A face that wavered slightly. What was wrong with his brother? "Dean?"

Dean smiled and wavered some more. "We need to leave."

Sam was lifted off the cold floor. He shook as his knees tried to buckle, but he forced them to lock and hold him upright. 

Hs brother held him until the room stopped spinning. "You ready?" 

Sam shook his head no, but answered, "Sure." He closed his eyes to fight the nausea, trusting Dean not to steer him wrong. Sam instead concentrated on remaining upright and moving. He was on his five hundredth mental repetition of _left, right, left_ when Dean stopped.

"Son of a bitch."

Sam opened his eyes, forcing them to focus. The Impala. He was impressed Dean didn't drop him to run and check on his baby.

"They better not have hurt her," Dean snarled.

Sam snorted and couldn't resist poking at his brother. "Dude, one of them must've driven it here."

Dean looked from Sam to the car. "Son of a bitch!"

~*~*~*~

Dean shifted his grip on his brother, pushing him toward the car. Sam followed along in half a trance, moving where directed.

Wincing, Dean used his injured arm to open the door. Luckily, the psychotic duo had left it unlocked. Sam practically fell onto the seat, groaning when his back impacted the upholstery.

Slamming the door closed, Dean ran around to the other side and slid behind the wheel. Pain shot up his arm as he turned the key to start the engine. He pulled out onto the road and headed back toward town, he hoped.

"Where you goin'?"

Sam's voice broke through Dean's attempt to ignore his throbbing arm. "To find the nearest hospital."

"No." Sam shook his head. "No hospital."

Dean snorted humorlessly. "Try telling me that when you aren't covered in your own blood."

"Cops…we can't risk anyone connecting the dots."

"Fuck 'em."

Sam turned pleading eyes. "Do you want to end up in jail?"

Dean sighed. "I hate this."

"I know." Sam laid his head back, confident his brother had listened to him.

"Well, we both need help," Dean muttered. "No way I can stitch you up with this arm." He slapped his pocket for his phone, cursing when it wasn't there. He didn't bother asking if Sam still had his. Spotting a phone booth ahead, he pulled the car over. Two quick calls and they were back on the road. 

Sam was out of it, and Dean's own wound was thumping along with a now constant beat of pain.

Fortunately, they didn't have to go far.

~*~*~*~

Dean pulled into the long driveway per Bobby's instructions. He slowed down to avoid potholes in the gravel, but it didn't help much. Another jolt produced a bit off groan from Sam. 

"Sorry, sorry…we're almost there."

Parking in front of the cabin, Dean shut off the engine. Sam didn't move.

Dean wanted to scout the place before he tried to move his brother. He slid the car's door open, wincing at the creak. But Sam was still out cold.

At the lack of response, Dean paused. Was Sam just sleeping or…? Dean leaned over to check Sam's breathing.

Sam's eyes snapped open.

Dean jumped back, hitting his injured arm on the seat. He cursed, clutching the appendage with his other hand.

"What the hell?" Sam yelped.

"I was making sure you weren't dead."

"Next time try not to give me a heart attack."

"Back at'cha." Dean dragged a breath in and out. "We're here. You stay put while I check it out."

Sam squinted out of the windshield. "Where's 'ere?" he mumbled.

"Somewhere safe."

Sam nodded, his interest waning almost immediately. "A'right." He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

Dean stared at him for a long moment. But there was nothing he could do to help his brother until he got him inside, so he pulled out the gun and made his way to the cabin. The key was where Bobby said it would be, and Dean let himself inside.

It wasn't fancy, but they'd stayed in worse. There was one large room that included a kitchen and living room. A short hallway led to a bathroom and a small bedroom. He'd try to get Sam onto the only bed. Dean propped the cabin door open and walked to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door and carefully shook Sam's shoulder. He didn't wake.

"Sam," Dean called, somewhat loudly.

Sam groaned but didn't open his eyes. 

"Oh, hell, no. No way am I carrying your ass inside." Dean forced an angry growl to his words to disguise his worry.

Grabbing Sam's chin, he pulled it around to face him. He slapped his cheek lightly once, then again.

Sam swatted an arm, but Dean easily deflected it. "Come on, princess. Let me see those pretty eyes of yours."

Eyelids cracked open. "I hate you" was slurred out of the swollen mouth.

"I know," Dean said. "Let's get you inside, and you can hate me from a comfy bed." He pulled Sam from the car and onto his feet. Only Dean's grip kept his brother from face-planting onto the gravel driveway. 

They moved together, Dean taking on more of Sam's weight with each step. Just when Dean felt he would collapse under the almost dead weight, they reached the bed. Sam hit the soft mattress with a force that elicited a soft cry, before rolling over and going silent. Dean took a moment before hustling to the kitchen to get something to clean his brother's wounds.

Then he heard a noise outside. 

~*~*~*~

Dean headed to the back, sparing a glance at Sam as he climbed out of the bedroom window. He circled the cabin, drawing his pistol as he reached the front. Someone stood on the stoop, knocking lightly on the cabin door.

"Hands where I can see them," Dean demanded.

"My name's Murphy," the man answered, not turning around. "I'm a friend of Bobby's." 

"Awesome. Now put the bag down and get your hands up where I can see 'em."

The man lifted his empty hands; the left one was missing two fingers just as Bobby had said it would.

"All right, you can drop 'em." Dean lowered his gun.

Murphy turned around. "You Dean?"

Dean nodded.

"Fantastic." Murphy picked up his bag. "Can I see your brother now, or should I call it a night?"

Dean pushed past, opening the door. "He's in on the bed." He led the way to the bedroom, grabbing water and rags from the kitchen as he passed.

Sam was dozing face down, and Dean hated to wake him, but it had to be done. He moved silently to the bed, sitting down on it and sliding a hand over his brother's head. 

Slowly, Sam opened his eyes, tensing as he saw they had company.

"This is one of Bobby's friends, name's Murphy," Dean said. "He's gonna stitch you up."

Sam swallowed hard before nodding, letting his head drop back onto a pillow.

Setting his bag down, Murphy took out a pair of scissors and started cutting the shirt-bandages off. "What happened?" he asked when he saw the damage.

Dean hesitated.

His voice muffled, Sam said, "I fought a cougar and lost."

"Uh-huh." Murphy rolled his eyes.

"Don't forget to check Dean's arm," Sam added, lifting his head just enough to be clearly heard.

Murphy looked at Dean.

"Don't worry about me; fix him."

"I can do both," Murphy said. "I'm good that way."

"Bobby didn't say you were a pain in the ass," Dean muttered.

"Well, he told me _you_ were."

Sam hissed as Murphy started to clean his back. Dean forced his hands to unclench. He reminded himself that Sam was being helped. He revised that thought an instant later when Sam pulled away with a cry.

"Sammy, what is it?" Dean asked, sitting down on the bed beside his brother.

Face buried in the pillow, Sam shook his head. "Nothing." He settled, but as soon as Murphy touched him again, he flinched away.

Making eye contact with Murphy, Dean asked, "Can you give us a few minutes?" The doctor nodded. Once they were alone, Dean asked Sam, "What is it, dude?"

"I'm fine," the pillow mumbled.

"Yeah, you're so fine your blood is redecorating the bedspread and you don't want our only doc to touch you." That's when Dean got it. "Sam," his voice lowered, "I'm right here. Murphy's not gonna hurt you."

Still refusing to lift his head, Sam said, "I know."

"But you still don't want him touching you."

"No."

Dean was completely serious when he asked, "Do you want me to hold your hand?"

That made Sam's head pop up. "I'm not a child."

"No, you're not," Dean agreed. "You're a man who just went through a very traumatic twenty-four hours. It's no wonder you don't want anyone to mess with you. But this has got to be done."

Sam took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Fine."

~*~*~*~

As Dean called Murphy back in, Sam turned his head away. He didn't know Murphy, didn't trust him. But Dean seemed to, and Sam trusted Dean. So he took a deep breath and forced himself to lie still. Murphy started tending to his wounds slowly, gently, as if dealing with a spooked horse. Sam internally rolled his eyes and wondered when he had become such a pussy, but every touch by this stranger made his flesh crawl. 

As if he heard Sam's thoughts, Dean placed a hand on Sam's arm. Sam wanted to be strong enough to shrug it off. But he wasn't. He forced himself to focus on that contact instead of the unfamiliar hands trying to fix his ragged back. It took everything he had to lie still and let himself be sewn up, but it was too much to keep silent as well, and he let a groan escape his pressed lips. 

Even after trying to hold himself rigid, Sam could feel minute tremors coursing through his body and prayed that Dean wouldn't be aware of them. But when Dean's hand tightened on his arm, he knew he'd failed. Before he started on a particularly rough patch, Murphy warned that it would be bad. Dean moved his hand from Sam's arm to his neck, rubbing his fingers into his nape for support. 

It seemed to take forever before Murphy finally said, "That's the last one." 

Though Sam wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion, there was something he had to do first. Struggling to sit up, he ignored his brother's attempt to push him back down. "Now fix Dean."

Dean opened his mouth for a denial, but Sam wearily said, "Dean, let him do it so I can go to sleep." 

With an aggrieved sigh, Dean shed his jacket, wincing as the dried blood stuck to his wound.

Murphy shook his head. "Just what the hell have you boys gotten yourselves into?"

"The usual." Sam shrugged, regretting the motion as his new stitches pulled. He remained upright—barely—knowing if he let himself lay down he'd be out for the count. He needed to know Dean was taken care of before he let that happen. 

Sam must've zoned out because, before he knew it, Dean was trying to get him to turn over and lie down. Sam fought it for a moment until his fingers brushed the newly wrapped bandage on Dean's arm. 

"I'm all done, Sam, you can rest now," Dean said.

Sam didn't fight the hands any longer. He closed his eyes instantly and started to drift, barely hearing the whispered, "It's okay, I've got the watch," before he was lost to everything.

~*~*~*~

Dean made sure Sam was asleep before he headed into the other room, leaving the bedroom door open, just in case.

Murphy stood at the bar, packing his bag. "You in the same line of work as Bobby?"

Dean paused, not sure how much the guy knew. "Similar," he hedged.

Murphy nodded. "Well, if no one else can or will, I want to thank you boys."

Dean didn't try to hide his confusion.

"I know you don't always get the gratitude you deserve for a pretty thankless job. But what you do matters." Murphy held up the hand missing two digits. "Ghoul. Luckily, Bobby took it out before it could eat the rest of me."

Dean wasn't quite sure what to do with appreciation, wanting instead to express his own thanks at his brother being stitched up by a professional.

Reaching into his bag, Murphy set two pill bottles and a piece of paper on the counter. "Antibiotics and pain meds…for both of you. And my number." He drew his eyes up. "I can't do what you boys do, but I can offer this."

Dean cleared his throat. "That's good enough for me."

Murphy waited a beat then nodded. "I'll leave you to it then. Good luck to both of you." He turned and was gone before Dean could say anything else.

After making sure the front door was secure, Dean checked the rest of the house, ending up back in the bedroom. He sat on the bed with his hand on Sam's arm, hoping his presence would be enough to keep any nightmares at bay —for him and Sam. 

Dean couldn't help but remember what his brother's back had looked like when Murphy was fixing him up. Most of the cuts had been superficial and wouldn't scar, but there were a few that had dug deep. Sam would definitely have mementos from them. 

When Dean had first seen his brother tied up and coated in red he had been horrified. But it had turned out it wasn't all from injuries—basically the psychos had painted Sammy with his own blood. Dean wasn't sure if it was to up the fear factor or just because they were demented fucks. At this point he didn't much care. Sam was safe and Dean was tired. Leaning back against the headboard, he closed his eyes just for a minute. 

When he woke up, Sam was gone. 

~*~*~*~

Sam was just exiting the bathroom when Dean ran out of the bedroom, nearly crashing into him. Dean backed off, adopting a casual lean against the doorjamb.

Like it fooled Sam for an instant. 

Sam had had his fill of the worry in Dean's eyes and smiled to show he was fine. "Relax, just had to take care of business." To sideline the questions that would no doubt be coming, he asked, "So is there anything to eat in this dump?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but he took the out. "Dump? I'll have you know this place got four stars." He moved to the kitchenette, pulling things out one-handed. 

When Sam tried to help, Dean just shook his head and gave him a gentle nudge, staring pointedly at a chair. Sam sat down gingerly, making sure his back didn't rub against the chair's.

Rooting through the cupboards, Dean managed to find some crackers to go with the soup, and filled some glasses with water for them both. They ate quickly, like starving men. Not surprising since it had been more than a day since they'd eaten. 

Sam waited until Dean finished before he asked, "Are we heading back today?"

Dean blinked, wiping his mouth on a paper towel. "Back where?"

"Dean, we can't let those people do…what they did…to anyone else." Sam stumbled over the rushed words. He hadn't realized he was trembling until Dean placed his hand on his forearm. 

"It's taken care of," Dean said.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, while you were making with your bloody Sleeping Beauty impression, I made a couple of calls. One was to Bobby to find this place and a doctor. The second was an anonymous tip to the cops. There's no way they'll get out of it. Not with all the—" Dean shuddered. "—stuff in there." 

Sam dropped his gaze, playing with the cracker crumbs on the table. He wondered if he should ask exactly what Dean had seen, but found he really didn't want to know.

"So relax, kid," Dean said, overly bright. "We got no plans for the next few days except to rest and heal…and find some real goddamn food. This soup ain't cutting it." He lightly slapped the table and rose. "I think we passed a general store down the way. I'm gonna check it out."

"You need to take one of those pain pills first," Sam said. He hadn't missed the careful way Dean was moving.

"Sammy, don't you read instructions? You're not supposed to operate heavy machinery after taking 'em, and the Impala is definitely heavy duty." 

Sam narrowed his eyes, not saying a word. 

Dean sighed. "Okay, fine. I promise when I get back I will take the frickin' pain pills."

"And an antibiotic."

"And an antibiotic," Dean agreed. "If you'll take both right now."

"I'm not that bad," Sam lied.

"Dude, you're moving like an arthritic grandma who was in a horrific car crash, got out of the car, then rolled down a cliff. Take your pills, stretch out on the bed, and I'll be back in twenty minutes."

That plan actually sounded good to Sam, but he didn't trust his brother to follow through on taking his own pills if Sam wasn't there to watch. And Sam also knew as soon as he took the pills, he'd fall asleep—long before Dean returned. "Do you promise to take a pain pill and an antibiotic when you get back?"

Dean sighed, raised a hand, and put action to his words, "Cross my heart and hope to…" He paused for a second before grinning and continuing with, "to listen to nothing but your alt-emo crap for the rest of my life."

Sam knew Dean was being honest in his own pain-in-the-ass way. "All right."

Satisfied, Dean nodded. "Lock the door behind me; I'm taking the key."

"Bring back some real food," Sam shot back. "No Twinkies."

"Dude." Dean was appalled. "Twinkies _are_ real food."

"Only to you and five-year-olds."

"See?" With a smirk, Dean was out the door. 

Making good on his word, Sam took one of each of the pills, went to the bathroom, then laid down on the bed. It didn't matter that bright afternoon sunlight was streaming through the window. Sam barely had time to pull the blanket over himself before he was out.

~*~*~*~

Three days of rest, and Sam's back was healed enough to sit in the Impala. If not for an extended trip, at least long enough to get further away from this place and the memories it held. Dean's arm was better as well, though he still was unable to do a lot without a severe twinge. But he only needed one arm to drive.

Parking in front of the gas station, Dean beat his slow-moving brother to the door. He held the door open for Sam, giving him a little kick when his brother paused at the entrance. When Sam glared at him, he simply grinned in return. The expression disappeared as Sam walked away.

Dean watched as Sam prowled through the store, grabbing supplies for the car ride ahead. The few times they'd been out since the attack, Dean had noticed Sam shying away from other people. It hurt to see such a reaction. Sam had always looked for the best in people, and Dean hated the fact those psychos had tainted that. Almost as much as he hated the fading scars on his brother's body. 

Brushing past Sam to stand at the end of the counter, Dean saw the check-out girl give Sam his change. Sam gave a barely noticeable flinch but managed a faint smile at the girl while grabbing the bag. 

Dean ducked his head to hide a grin. Sam _would_ get over this—with his big brother's help, of course. He would dig that freakin' Pollyanna attitude back out with a shovel if he had to.

A local newspaper caught Dean's eye and his grin widened. Maybe this would hasten Sammy along the road to mental health. He snagged the top paper, tossed two quarters on the counter, and followed his brother out to the car. Good news deserved to be shared.

Dean tossed the paper on the seat and started the car. Through his peripheral vision, he saw his brother glance over at the headline: _Serial Killer Couple Caught_. Sam's rigid stance loosened, and he sank into the seat with a satisfied smile.

Relief dulling the pain in his arm, Dean floored the gas pedal and watched the town quickly disappear in the rearview mirror. 

Sam would be fine. 

Dean would make sure of it.


End file.
